


Han Shot First

by anactoria



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode: s10e20 Angel Heart, Gen, Gratuitous Star Wars References, Hot Topical, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-28 17:11:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3862825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anactoria/pseuds/anactoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Cas. We are not having a conversation about the moral decisions of Star Wars characters.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“No,” Castiel agrees, “we’re not.” </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Han Shot First

**Author's Note:**

> I've never actually been in a Hot Topic, but I picture it as some bastard lovechild of Camden Market and Forbidden Planet. Forgive me if I'm wrong.

The store is an assault on the senses. Loud guitar music blares from speakers. Racks of merchandise emblazoned with the names of bands and superheroes crowd in close together, and Castiel finds that his gaze jumps incessantly from spot to spot, refusing to settle, making his head ache. 

A knot of teenagers in aggressively-logoed t-shirts snigger openly at them from behind curtains of hair, and Castiel tenses, the muscles of his hands clenching in anticipation of the moment when they will have to grab Dean’s arms and hold him back from another assault. He holds hawk-still, watching Dean’s eyes flick toward the little group.

“Off my damn lawn,” Dean mutters under his breath, and Castiel takes a second to parse it. Dean doesn’t have a lawn; but the lawn isn’t literal. It’s something old people say in movies and TV shows, scowling at children from the rocking-chairs on their porches. 

Dean is making fun of himself. That’s good—for a certain value of good, anyway. Castiel feels the moment pass; allows himself to ignore the teenagers; turns to survey the rest of the store.

His attention catches on a small plush toy. A misshapen likeness of a cat, with downturned mouth and wide, aggrieved eyes. Castiel recognizes most of the characters that adorn t-shirts and posters around the store—has done since Metatron dumped two millennia of human storytelling into his head—but this one is unfamiliar. He picks up the stuffed cat and studies it, but nothing springs to mind.

“Grumpy Cat,” Dean informs him. “It’s a meme.” He considers the cat for a moment. “Kinda looks like you.”

“A meme.” Castiel regards him in confusion. “A… unit of cultural transmission or imitation?”

“Sure.” Dean shakes his head, the amused quirk of his mouth too brief. “Something people post on the internet. Like a picture or a video or something. It’s like—people think it gets funnier the more times they see it. I dunno.”

Castiel’s confusion clears. “Like when you quote movies that I haven’t seen and Sam doesn’t like, but you laugh anyway.”

Dean glowers at him but doesn’t retort. He’s been treading carefully since the bar, which only makes Castiel watch him more closely. He wanders further into the store, then stops and picks up a plastic figurine, eyes widening.

“Boba Fett,” he says, and a small smile—perhaps the first genuine one he’s given all day—appears on his face. 

“Yes?” Castiel replies, uncertainly. He’s not sure what kind of reaction is required of him, just that he doesn’t want to make that smile disappear again.

“Dude,” Dean says, “it’s an alarm clock, but it’s Boba Fett.” He pauses. “You do know—”

“The bounty hunter who delivered Han Solo to Jabba the Hutt,” Castiel says, nodding. “Metatron favors books, but he clearly thought so popular a story was worth watching.”

The dissatisfied frown that replaces Dean’s smile surprises him. It occurs to him that mentioning Metatron was a mistake. The memory of their first failed attempt at getting the cure out of him is likely still fresh in Dean’s mind; and the whole subject skirts too close to the chasm of lies that widens between them each day. 

But Dean just says, “I always figured, I dunno, sometime. Not gonna say ‘when all this was over’, ‘cause it’s never fucking over.” A pained grimace crosses his face, briefer than the flicker of a flame. “But sometime? We’d sit down and make you watch all the human crap you missed out on. Video you finding out Vader was Luke’s dad, put it on YouTube.” He pokes Castiel in the chest with Boba Fett’s plastic helmet. “Dude, _you_ coulda been a meme.” 

Dean is trying hard. Covering, conscious that he has shown too many of his jagged edges. Castiel knows that.

Still, there is truth in these things when Dean offers them—even when he offers them as distractions. Castiel feels the regret under it all. The inevitability of Dean’s only being able to talk about his hopes—even hopes so small as this one—when they are no longer possibilities.

“Should I take Claire to a movie?” Castiel wonders aloud, by way of acceptance. 

It’s an acceptable family activity. She might like the dark of a movie theater, he thinks. The opportunity to escape for a few hours into a world not her own.

Dean laughs—only a split second too late to be natural—and gives Castiel one of the awkward shoulder-pats that he doles out like consolation prizes these days. “Hey, kid had a screwed-up childhood, but I don’t think she missed out on Star Wars. So, you know. Don’t gotta beat yourself up that bad.”

Castiel gives him a quiet smile in return. They’ve wandered further into the store, and they’re surrounded by rainbows of slogan t-shirts and garish sneakers, but Castiel is still clutching the stuffed cat, Dean his Star Wars figurine.

“Hey, you know what else?” Dean goes on, warming to his change of subject. “Angel vision. You could settle it once and for all. Who shot first, Han or Greedo?”

“Han,” Castiel replies, immediately. Then hesitates. “But if he hadn’t, the rebels might never have won. It meant he was still there to make the right decision in the end. To rejoin his friends, instead of—”

Dean snorts, stopping him short. “Cas. We are not having a conversation about the moral decisions of Star Wars characters.”

“No,” Castiel agrees, “we’re not.” 

Dean doesn’t respond, at least not directly. He takes one last look at the Boba Fett figurine and sets it down with a noise of disgust, grumbling, “I’m too old for this crap.” 

Castiel isn’t sure whether he’s referring to Boba Fett or the conversation. Before he can ask, Dean is shouldering his way toward the door, fumbling in his pocket for his cellphone, saying something about checking in with Sam.

Castiel takes a step toward the counter with Claire’s stuffed cat. Then he stops, turns back, and picks up Boba Fett.

 

\----

 

He doesn’t think about the figurine again until Claire is gone and he’s on the road out of Tulsa. A truck pulls out of an intersection without stopping, forcing him to brake hard, and the Hot Topic bag on the shotgun seat topples onto the floor. He never did give it to Dean.

Perhaps he should save it for a birthday present. It would not be inappropriate, then. It might even make Dean smile—really smile, without distance in his eyes.

But January is many months away, and the idea fails to comfort him.


End file.
